Conan the Rebel

by Poul Anderson

  'I believe the details can wait,' the old man said. 'You twain -well, Ausar, I also have raised girls in my time. It seemed best that

  you first calm your souls about Daris and about any other world business, for we have concerns before us which are not entirely this world. Have you done so?'

  The war lord settled himself, frowning. 'I am in Conan's blood debt,' he said slowly. 'He freed her and conveyed her back in more honourable wise than – Well, what she has confided to me is no fault of his, I suppose. Mainly we two have been telling each other about his journey and my war-waging.'

  The Cimmerian flushed in embarrassment. Parasan raised a palm. 'No need to speak out what I can guess,' the priest murmured. 'Let Daris find consolation in pride. Without her, Conan would never have come to us. She has borne destiny, Ausar.'

  A chill tingled through the Northerner. He did not understand this at all, and did not think he would like it when he did. Hunched forward on his chair, he strove to be courteous, but his tone roughened: 'What do you mean... sir? I have told my host how chance brought me, nothing else. I wish you people well, and maybe I can do you some further service in exchange for some things I expect I shall need, but nailed to the masthead is my aim of winning back to my true lady as soon as may be.'

  Wise and luminous, the eyes of Parasan caught his and would not let go. 'Do you indeed believe everything has been accident, Conan?' the priest responded as. softly as before. 'I know better, and I have not even heard just what happened. Two gods are in struggle. We mortals are not mere instruments – no, it is we who must win or lose by our own efforts, lest the universe be torn asunder as they wrestle – but their wills are manifest. Shall an outpost of Mitra again flourish in freedom, for a light unto this part of the world, or shall the Serpent crush and poison it and the dominion of his sorcerers spread unrestrained abroad? That is what we make trial of.'

  The young man sought to protest. Parasan would not let him: 'Of late I have prayed much, and offered Mitra such clean sacrifices as are acceptable to him, and pleaded for a sign. This has been granted me, in dreams and visions. Their meaning was enigmatic until today, but after you had come, I fell into a trance

  before the altar, and more was revealed to me. I have no further doubt. You are he who shall bear the Ax of Varanghi.'

  In grave words, he told the legend and the creed.

  'No,' Conan whispered at the end. 'No, I am only a – a rover, a barbarian adventurer. I have been thief, bandit, pirate -'

  'And the year will come, if you live, when you are a king,' Parasan said. 'What mortal has never done wrong? The Prophecy declares that the Wielder of the Ax will be of the Northern race which founded Taia, and worthy – not that he will be a saint.'

  Excitement drove away Ausar's last reservations. 'The wizards in Khemi must have had reason to believe Conan is a threat to them!' he exclaimed. 'Did Set himself give warning, as Mitra has granted signs to you? Why else would those devils have gone to such trouble over a mere corsair?'

  Parasan nodded his winter-crowned head. 'Aye; and indeed, though I am no magician, I dimly sense monstrous forces of evil nigh to us.' He straightened. 'But we can prevail over them. We must. Conan, accept your destiny. It is your way to freedom.'

  The Cimmerian gnawed his lip. Having brought Daris home, he had thought he and Falco might return to the wingboat, proceed down the Styx, and at sea, rig a sail to bear them onward.

  And yet – he could not but feel he still owed Daris a return for love and loyalty. Far more than that, he had beforehand taken up Bêlit's cause of vengeance upon Stygia; and lately he had promised Jehanan, who had saved his life, that he would tread the Snake underfoot in Jehanan's name. How much could he wreak with a single buccaneer crew?

  'I speak no threat against you, who deserve well of us,' Parasan said quietly. 'But I swear by most high Mitra – may he forsake me if I lie – that a man who refuses a sacred duty laid on him is... not accursed... but abandoned; never again will he know honour or joy or love. Yes, Conan, our enterprise may fail, you may die in a strange land, but then you will die fulfilled; and if not, then for a time afterward – what little time the gods may allot, yet for a time -you shall have your dearest wish.'

  The words struck into the wanderer like a knife. Dry-throated, he whispered, 'Where is this weapon?'

  Ausar listened, shivering in tension.

  'Will you wield it?' Parasan asked, unrelenting.

  Conan had never been one to dither. All the storms in him came together and spoke: 'I will! By Crom, I will!'

  And what a glorious fight would follow, thought a part of him.

  Breath hissed between Ausar's teeth. Parasan nodded again, serene, and told them: 'Now hear what we few priests in Mitra's Taian temple have bequeathed from lifetime to lifetime for a hand of centuries. When the last king fell, he who afterward became the Prophet was at his side. This holy man took the holy implement beneath his cloak and bore it off the field. Well did he know that the Stygians would ransack Taia from end to end in search of a thing so foreboding to them. It must be hidden where no one would ever search.'

  Conan's prosaic practicality made him interrupt: 'Why has no magician tracked it down in all this time? If it is from heaven, it ought to show plain against common earth, to any questing spell.'

  'The virtue of the Ax wards every kind of magic off itself,' Parasan explained. 'If somehow a wizard did find and seek to recover it, his own powers would recoil and blast him. Even a mortal in a wizard's service would be so tainted by those forces that the Ax would destroy him. An ordinary man, whether a chance adventurer or someone hired for this task only, should be able to take up the weapon without coming to harm. But nobody would go to its hiding place at a mere venture, and be-like there is not gold enough in Stygia to pay an expedition.

  'For the Ax lies in Pteion.'

  Ausar gasped.

  'The holy man's sanctity repelled demons and ghouls when he entered and buried it,' Parasan went on. 'Know, Conan, that Pteion is a ruined city of immemorial antiquity, in eastern Stygia just across the Taian border. Chronicles declare it was founded by the Acheronians, thousands of years ago; but legend, which may well be true, says that they were only inheritors, and the true builders were the serpent men of prehistoric Valusia. For untold centuries it was the seat of black magicians and thus of terror; but during the Seventh Dynasty of Stygia, the desert encroached until

  Pteion was abandoned and the wizards moved their centre to Khemi. Uncontrolled, the foul beings they raised or created have haunted the ruins ever since, and no man goes near.'

  Conan shuddered. Sweat broke forth upon him. His spirit groaned.

  'I repeat, no devil has power over the Ax, which came to Varanghi from Mitra himself,' Parasan said. Each word seemed to peal more dread out of his listeners. 'Bold men, in a noble cause, entering by day, may dare hope to carry out their mission. If they be no saints, as the Prophet was, still they can fare under what benediction is mine to give, and keep their hearts sufficiently pure that evil finds no entry for stinging them from within. Yes, I think you will bear forth the Ax, Conan.'

  'And then?' the Cimmerian heard himself mumble.

  'Why, then you will lead the warriors of Taia as they win freedom for their land,' Parasan replied. Abruptly, astoundingly, he laughed. 'I leave the details of that to the professionals.'

  More than an hour followed, in which Conan and Ausar talked while, for the most part, the priest sat mute. He heard the story of what had happened, he asked questions and made a few suggestions, he saw courage flame up in the others.

  They went on to tactics. Further discussion would be necessary in the morning, but the outline of a plan grew rapidly. In the saddle, with ample remounts, at the fastest prudent pace, it was about a week's travel from Thuran to Pteion. That was because much of the route was through the valley of a river that had long since dwindled to a brook, easier going for horses than most of this country was. Let Conan and his guide bring a troop of about a h
undred men; such a number ought to suffice against any foreseeable contingency. Meanwhile let Ausar organize his host and move west, recruiting as he went.

  After losing the latest engagement, General Shuat had left half his Stygians to garrison Seyan and the lower Helu. He was marching the remainder north-west, on a military road that ran from the governor's seat toward Luxur. Ausar guessed he planned a pincers movement, quite likely in conjunction with reinforcements sent from the royal capital. Let Conan's band rejoin

  their kinsmen after the Ax had been retrieved, and they could all seek to reduce the Stygians in detail.

  Of course, King Mentuphera and his immense reserves would be left, and he would scarcely let the loss of a detachment or two check his ambitions. However, that worry was best deferred to the unknowable future. If Conan had learned anything about war, it was that the first casualty of a battle is always one's battle plan.

  Exalted, he finally rose to say good night. 'May I accompany you back to the temple, sir?' he asked Parasan.

  'No, thank you,' said the priest. 'Though you be chosen of Mitra, you are not initiated into his mysteries as Ausar and I are. I think best we two pray together for a while.'

  The younger warrior felt no offence, nor for that matter any particular desire to be initiated. Crom was in many ways a much less demanding god. With a wave, Conan stepped forth into darkness.

  Brilliant though the stars were, his eyes needed a moment to adapt. He saw his breath smoke white beneath them, and -

  And what was the shape rising yonder, as if it had lately been on the ground near Ausar's pavilion? An eagle? No, that could scarcely be; eagles were not night fowl, nor would one descend this close to humans. It must be some other kind of large bird.

  After all, he was in a strange country. He should not let a chance-met wild creature disturb him. Yet he wished he had not been so stubbornly honourable. The human warmth of Daris would have been very welcome just now. Conan hastened toward his lonely tent.

  Made tireless by her magic, Nehekba flew across hundreds of miles, faster than aquiline flesh and blood would ever be able. A second false dawn turned the east cold, when she discerned Luxur beneath her and slanted earthward.

  At the snake-encircled cupola atop the temple of Set, she glided through an arch to its deck and resumed her human form. Feather-clad, she descended to a suite reserved for members of the Black Ring. There she rested and planned until mid-morning. At that time she dispatched a messenger to the king, bearing a token which would get him immediately received and a written request for a confidential audience. It was a request in form only; she required it. The monarch knew that and sent back a prompt invitation.

  At the appointed hour, duly stately in crown and robes, she crossed the plaza to the palace. In order to emphasize the gravity of the occasion, she did not go afoot, but in a brazen chariot without wheels or tongue, that bore her along three feet off the ground. Awed guardsmen bowed low, stood well away from her vehicle after it had settled to earth and she stepped out, provided a man to escort her inside.

  She was ushered into a room small but well appointed. Scenes of the chase ornamented its walls, and the furniture was lavishly carven and gilt. Mentuphera bade her be seated. He himself filled a silver wine cup for her.

  'I hope that my lady, high priestess of Derketa, will accept the presence of my first son,' he said. 'I want him to learn how such things are also a part of statecraft.'

  Nehekba shrugged. 'If you desire, Your Majesty,' she replied, careful to observe the niceties. While Mentuphera was apprehensive of her and her colleagues, he was no weakling. On the contrary, Stygia had not had so formidable a secular lord for generations. He was a tall man, heavily muscled in his plain tunic, scarred from many a combat. His face was square, weather-beaten, broken-nosed, his eyes like metal. Ever at his hip, even when he wore dress of state, hung a sword. Despite his deference to the witch, he did not try to conceal the lechery that flickered in his glance across her beauty; they had often shared a bed.

  'In truth,' she continued, 'you are wise to let the crown prince hear. O King, live forever. Yet the gods alone see what lurks behind tomorrow's sunrise, and I bear tidings of peril.'

  Ctesphon, heir apparent, a slender man no longer quite young, stirred uneasily on his seat. 'My lord father,' he ventured, 'should we not have your counsellors here as well? The words of a sorcerer are often darkling – no disrespect to my lady – and no single mind can think of every issue that should be raised.'

  'I desired private discussion,' Nehekba reminded sharply. 'Much of what I am about to tell Your Majesty should not be

  noised abroad, lest fear breaks its chains and run loose in Stygian hearts.'

  Mentuphera gave his son a doubtful glance, but decided not to dismiss him. Ctesphon had frequently argued that the plan of conquering an empire was unwise. However, since he could not dissuade his father, he worked loyally and ably in the cause; he hunted lions in his chariot; searching for arcane knowledge from which Mentuphera's hard soul shrank, he dared correspond with Tothapis' exiled rival, Thoth-amon the terrible.

  'Say on,' the king rumbled.

  'Your Majesty knows the legend the Taians tell, of the Ax of Varanghi,' Nehekba began.

  'Wistful folklore,' Mentuphera snorted. Ctesphon grew tense.

  'Would that it were,' Nehekba responded. She went on to describe – in a version preserving the dignity of herself and Tothapis – what had happened and what she had lately spied on. 'I fear we cannot get men to Pteion ahead of Conan by any earthly means,' she finished, 'and to transport them magically would be but to send a quite inadequate number against his troop, given the limited time and means available to us. Besides, such an experience would wreck their morale and leave them easy prey to him.'

  'By the fangs of Set!' The king's fist crashed on an arm of his chair. 'A lout like that, the chosen instrument of – of Mitra? Why, if the Sun Master can do no better than Conan, what is to fret about?'

  'Much, my lord father,' Ctesphon murmured. 'Only think what the barbarian has done thus far, with no supernatural weapon.' I

  'Yes,' Nehekba agreed. 'Your majesty, hesitation on our part: will mean loss of that entire province, which will thereafter stand armed and hostile at your back. What then of your dreams of foreign conquest?

  'No, mobilize the strongest force you possibly can on short ', notice. Command it yourself, leaving the crown prince here as viceroy, for your presence will instil valour no matter what your soldiers meet. March south-east at once, within days, to bring Taia to submission. Meanwhile, we who serve Set will strive by every art we possess to keep the Ax that Mitra forged in the grave where it

  belongs. Should we fail in that, do not despair, for we shall have further resources. One way or another, given your help in this world, O King, we shall succeed against your enemy in the heavens.'

  'Aye!' Mentuphera shouted.

  In a crypt below the temple of Set, candle flames flickered blue. There on a table, among the shadows, stood a glass vessel in the form of a womb. Within this floated the pale, curled, half-formed figure of a babe unborn.

  Nehekba entered. An acolyte in attendance prostrated himself before her. 'Go,' she said, and he crawled out backward.

  Leaning over the womb, staring into the blind face beneath her, she drew signs and muttered words. The homunculus stirred. Agony twisted the blob that was its countenance. Words came out of its throat in little plopping globules: 'Who calls me? What would you?'

  'It is I, Nehekba,' the witch hissed. 'Heed well, Tothapis, and set all else aside. I do not say that the Wreck of the Gods draws nigh, though that may be; but surely an hour is upon us when, once more, the Bull and the Serpent make war.'

  Across as many miles as she had flown, the wizard spoke through the small monstrosity: 'Tell me what you have learned.'

  She did. At the end, she said urgently, 'Fate hangs yet in the balance, and will while Conan lives.' Her nails scratched the air. 'That need not be for long. But it
will take mighty magic to halt him; his destiny is in spate. My lord, do not crouch in your house any more. Come forth yourself, on dragon wings, with your spells prepared. Meanwhile I will return to spy on Conan and work what spells I can on whatever weaknesses I sense in him and his companions. By such means did my predecessor, five hundred years ago, finally make vulnerable the last man who wielded the Ax.

  'Let us meet at Pteion of the ghouls, my Lord – and you and I destroy him!'

  XVI

  Journey to the Damned

  Stones rattled beneath hooves. Glowering from the west, a sun tinged bloody by dust made eyes ache that already stung from sweat and were weary after days of squinting at naught but desolation. Light and unmerciful heat rebounded from the walls of the gorge through which the Taians rode. Those red slopes grew lower, less steep and cragged, for every mile; but that was merely because the travellers were approaching open desert. Patches of sand ahead shimmered in an illusion of water that redoubled thirst.

  Mostly the warriors fared in silence, nursing their steeds along. Kaftans and burnooses they had donned against this clime fluttered around their lean bodies. Spears swayed to the rhythm of riding, points ablaze with the radiance, as if wind passed over a grain field on fire. Though the men had no love for the wasteland around them, they suffered less than did their Northern leader. At the head of his hundred, Conan endured.

  Some yards behind him, Daris brought her horse next to Falco's. 'How goes it for you, friend?' the woman asked. 'You have said almost nothing on this trip.'

  The Ophirite shrugged and did not turn his face to look at her. More than parchedness roughened his voice. 'What has there been to talk about?'

  'Why, everything,' she answered softly. 'Hopes, dreams, memories – even fears, if naming those would help give power over them. You were a cheerful soul before, Falco. What gnaws at you of late? That tomorrow we reach dread Pteion?'